


That Dream Within a Dream

by shinykari (meinterrupted)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (because why not?), (written by someone with no experience in it), Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Background Sif/Beta-Ray Bill, Big Bang Challenge, Blow Jobs, Community: trope_bingo, F/M, Frottage, Humor, Loki is not a good guy, M/M, Magic, Roombas, Story within a Story, Swordfighting, background Thor/Jane, completely ridiculous faux-history, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinterrupted/pseuds/shinykari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"When I was your age, television was called books. And this is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick, and I used to read it to your father. And today I'm gonna read it to you."<br/>"Has it got any sports in it?"<br/>"Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..."<br/>"Doesn't sound too bad. I'll try to stay awake."</p>
</blockquote>A Princess Bride/Marvel Cinematic Universe fusion.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been, literally, almost a year in the making. I first mentioned this on my Tumblr on June 23, 2013, and posted the first teensy bit of it there in August. With that sort of backstory behind it, it pretty much had to become my entry to the WIP Big Bang (aka the Finish Your Shit Big Bang). Many thanks to everyone on Tumblr for being encouraging, and especially to lady_banner, skadi-again-again, and eustacia_vye for looking this over and cleaning it up. 
> 
> Chapters will be posted every three or so days, and big bang art will be up soonish!
> 
> Sorry about the unforgivable lack of Sam Wilson. I fucked that one right up. (In my defense, it was almost entirely written pre-Cap2, but excuses are like assholes: everybody's got one and they all smell.)
> 
> Character list is in the end notes.

"I'm not taking visitors."

"I'm not visiting; I live here," Steve answered, trying to hide his smile. Bucky was lying flat on his back in the hospital cot the Avengers' medical staff had set up in their living room, his left leg elevated and in a cast. He'd broken his femur jumping off a building while Sam was occupied elsewhere and unable to catch him. Though the Infinity Formula would speed up his healing exponentially, Dr. Richards had insisted on traction. It wasn't medically necessary, he'd explained to Steve quietly, where Bucky couldn't overhear, but it would keep him from doing any more damage. 

"No, you don't, Rogers," Bucky grumped, turning away to stare out the window at the Manhattan skyline. "You forfeited your right to live here when you agreed with Richards and tied me to this bed."

Steve rolled his eyes and settled himself into the chair next to Bucky's bed. "Get over it, Buck. Besides, I brought you something," he said, waving the leather-bound book toward him.

Bucky did his best to not look at Steve, but Steve was patient. After a long moment, Bucky sighed, turned to Steve, and narrowed his eyes. "You brought me a book," he said, voice flat.

"No," Steve drawled, "I brought you a story."

"A story," Bucky repeated, voice dubious.

Steve bit back a smile. "Remember when we were kids, and I'd be stuck in bed with one illness or another? And you'd keep my spirits up by telling me stories? I figure it's my turn."

Bucky arched a brow. "So this is, what, payback?"

Steve sighed. "Humor me."

"Fine, fine. Read to me from your storybook. There better be swordfights and danger and stuff, though."

"There is."

Bucky huffed. "Alright, Rogers, do your worst."

Steve smiled and opened the book to the title page. "'The Princess Bride,' by S. Morgenstern, with minor changes by S. Rogers."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bucky said, holding up his hand. "You're reading me a romance novel? And changing it up?"

"You said you'd listen," Steve said, disapprovingly.

Bucky waved his hand in the air. "Fine, fine. Continue."

Steve smiled. "Chapter one..."

***

Once upon a time, in a fertile valley near the border between two countries, there was a small barony called Waverly. Bernard Barton, the latest Baron of Waverly, and his younger brother Clinton were the last remaining members of a noble family whose wealth had long since been lost to debts and gambling, and whose once-illustrious estate had dwindled to a ramshackle manor house on just a few acres. The land was just enough to keep them clothed and fed, with a small income left over to hire a farmhand, who lived with the brothers and helped manage the farm. It was a comfortable life, but not an easy one, something the Baron himself detested. Indeed, Bernard, or Barney as his friends called him, was often gone from the estate, spending as much time as he could afford in the city, and dreaming of marrying a wealthy widow woman and living a life of ease, far from the simple country life.

Clint, on the other hand, was content at Waverly. The work was hard, but the land was fruitful, and the woods around their fields were full of small game to hunt. He was such a good marksman that he earned the name 'Hawkeye,' for his keen sight and almost supernatural ability to hit a target with his bow.

But hunting was not Clint's only pastime, nor was it his favorite. He took his greatest pleasure in ordering around the farmhand they employed, a young man named Phil. Though Phil was some years older than he, Clint refused to call him anything but 'farmboy' and insisted he do the most menial of chores. Phil, seemingly unflappable, would only ever reply, "As you wish," no matter how Clint poked and prodded at his pride. 

One afternoon, Clint returned from a successful hunt to find Phil chopping firewood, his shirt hanging from a nearby branch. The warm light from the sinking sun made his tanned skin, already damp with sweat, seem to glow with an inner light. Clint slowed his horse to a walk, giving himself ample time to look his fill. The muscles in his back flowed under his skin with each heft of the axe, his biceps bulging when he strained to pull the steel head from a log. Rivulets of sweat ran down his spine, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers, and for a moment, all Clint could think was how Phil's skin would taste as he licked the moisture away.

He shook his head to clear away that thought, and shifted in the saddle to relieve the sudden tightness in his trousers. His horse, a gelding called Purple Rider, whickered and shifted as well. "Farmboy," Clint called, jutting his chin out and squaring his shoulders. Phil brought the axe down once more, splitting the log into two clean halves, and grabbed his shirt from the branch before turning around. Clint licked his lips, his train of thought momentarily derailed by the heavy weight of Phil's gaze as he wiped the sweat from his face and chest. "Clean these rabbits for me," he finally managed, voice squeaking as it hadn't since he'd grown out of short pants.

Phil stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Clint's, and took the brace of rabbits from his hand gently. Their fingers brushed, and the small contact sent a frisson of heat through Clint's body. "As you wish," Phil said, inclining his head slightly.

Clint had no answer, his mouth dry as Phil turned and walked away, the brace of rabbits held tightly in his strong hand. Purple Rider shook his head, pulling Clint back to the present, and he headed toward the stables, his thoughts scrambled and strange.

Later that afternoon, Clint was preparing the rabbits Phil had cleaned, when he heard the door to the farmhouse open. Clint set his knife on the table and paused, listening to familiar footsteps as Phil brought in a load of firewood. He set the logs in the wire basket next to the wood stove and turned, heading for the door.

"Farmboy!" Clint said, the word slightly strangled because, for some reason, he couldn't quite get a full breath of air. Phil turned slowly, and silently arched a questioning brow. Clint realized he had no real reason to call Phil to him, and cast around in vain for something to keep his attention. "Farmboy," he repeated, slower this time, "fetch me that pitcher?"

The very edges of Phil's lips quirked up as he walked deliberately toward Clint, his gaze never faltering. He reached above Clint's head for the clay pitcher hanging from the ceiling, his hand steady as he lifted it from its hook. "As you wish," he murmured, his lips only a breath from Clint's own.

**

"That day, Clint was amazed to discover that when he was saying 'As you wish,' what he meant was, 'I love you.' And even more amazing was the day he realized he truly loved Phil back," Steve read.

"Steve, this is a romance novel, isn't it?" Bucky said, interrupting Steve with a wave of his hand. "I said before you started, no romance! If I wanted romance--"

"--you'd watch a sappy Lifetime movie, I know, I know," Steve said. "You've told me that before. But I swear, it's not a romance novel. Or rather, it's a romance in the true literary tradition, like 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight' and ' _Le Morte D'Arthur_.'" He smirked. "I hear from our Atlantean ambassador you could use a little culture."

"Yeah, well, Namor is an insufferable prick, and you can tell Fish-face that I said that next time you see him," Bucky shot back.

"Does that mean you want me to stop?" Steve asked, his tone innocent.

Huffing indignantly, he settled back into the pillows. "I am not an uncultured swine. I can appreciate literature. Continue your story, then," he said, waving his hand at Steve imperiously.

"Now you're starting to _sound_ like Namor."

"Keep it up, Rogers, and I'll tell Natasha about that time--"

"Okay, okay, back to the book."

**

For some weeks after this revelation, the two were happier than any two people had ever been in the history of time, for they had found their true love. By day, they took care of the running of Waverly, while their nights were spent learning each other's bodies. It was perfect, and Clint wished for it never to end.

Unfortunately, the world was not built for lovers. In Asgard, only landowners could apply for a marriage license, and as the second son, Clint was essentially penniless. Phil was wealthier, but not by much; his wages from his time working at Waverly were not enough to purchase even an acre of ground. So, after much debate, Phil decided to leave Asgard and seek his fortune across the sea. No matter how Clint cajoled, pleaded, and even outright begged, Phil stood firm.

"I'll wait for you," Clint said, leaning in to press his forehead to Phil's.

"I'll be back before you know it. Then we can marry, and live happily ever after."

Clint laughed hollowly. "Happily ever after only happens in fairy tales, Phil."

Phil kissed him softly. "This is true love, Clint. Do you think this happens every day?"

So he went, and Clint stayed. It was a mere three weeks later that a royal rider came to Waverly, bearing ill tidings. Phil's ship had been attacked by the Dread Pirate Fury, and everyone knew that the Dread Pirate Fury takes no prisoners. Upon hearing of his lover's death, Clint was inconsolable, declaring that he would never, ever love again.

For several years, Clint found solace only in the twang of his bow and the rush of the wind in his face as he rode the stretch of Waverly's grounds. Even his brother's visits failed to break his melancholy, despite the rowdy parties he threw that never failed to empty the larder. But even in his grief, Clint could not ignore the changes that were happening in Asgard. Crown Prince Thor was disinherited when he broke his engagement with the noble Lady Sif to marry a commoner, and his brother, Loki, was named the heir to the kingdom. King Odin, ever wise even in his twilight years, stipulated that the younger prince had only two years to marry a citizen of noble birth, or his crown would pass instead to a distant cousin. Lady Sif, of course, was the intended choice, but the court gossips speculated her split with Thor was not as one-sided as it might have seemed. The noble lady had often been seen riding with the prince of a neighboring kingdom, William of Beta-ray, and had declined Loki's offer of marriage. (If certain castle employees were to be believed, she had done so with much vehemence, until Loki had retracted his proposal at the point of her sword.)

Which is why, five years after Phil's murder at the hands of the Dread Pirate Fury, he found himself engaged—rather against his will—to Prince Loki Odinson, and living in a wing of the palace as the future Prince Consort of Asgard, his noble blood and lack of political standing his only real contributions to the union. He spent his days riding his horse on the palace grounds, mingling with the citizens of Asgard, and entertaining them with his archery. It was not happiness, for no one who has found and then lost their true love can ever be truly happy again, but Clint took the contentment where he could: from the gleeful laugh of a child as he pinned an apple to a tree, to the shy smiles of a young woman riding a horse for the first time.

One morning, long before the rest of the palace residents stirred, Clint snuck out to the stables and saddled Purple Rider in secret. Taking only his bow and a quiver of arrows, he rode off into the morning mist, hoping to find some peace before another long day of his duties as Loki's intended.

He was several miles from the palace, near the edge of the royal woods, when he heard someone call out. "Excuse me sir," said a tall, thin man with a rather nasal voice and oddly long arms and legs. "We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a town or a village near here?" 

Clint shook his head and glanced over at the man's companions. One was a slim, redheaded woman with a sword on her belt and a thin scar on either cheek, while the other was a dark-eyed man wearing eyeglasses and clothes far too large for him. "No, not for miles," he admitted. "We are near the edge of the palace grounds."

The thin man's mouth stretched into a malicious smile. "Good. Then no one is around to hear you scream," he said.

Clint reached for his bow and notched an arrow, but before he could properly aim it at the ruffian, the other man roared and began to grow. Purple Rider reared back, and he dropped his arrow in a desperate attempt the calm the horse, even as the man's skin turned green and bulged with muscles. Just as he convinced Purple Rider to turn and flee, Clint felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck, and then everything went black.

**

Natasha rummaged through the prince's saddlebags as the Hulk carried his unconscious form onto Dr. Richards' waiting boat. She found a couple of very fine throwing knives, a strange weapon for a nobleman, and pocketed them while Richards ripped a patch of a blue tunic and planted it on the prince's horse. She frowned as she shouldered the quiver and knelt to pick up the bow he'd dropped. "What is that you're doing, Doctor?"

He sneered at her, and Natasha schooled her face into a bland mask to hide her disgust. "It's the uniform of an army officer of Jotunheim. When Prince Loki's men find this horse, empty of his rider but bearing this mark, he'll be certain that the villainous Jotuns have his love." His smile grew more sinister. "When he finds Barton's body on the frozen wastes of Jotunheim, his suspicions will be confirmed."

The Hulk ambled back over to them, and the green ebbed away as he shrunk back into Bruce. "You never said anything about murder, Reed," he scolded, his voice soft but tone hard.

Richards frowned, blinking in his confusion. "Banner, I hired you to start a _war_. How else did you think we were going to do that?" He snorted. "For a so-called genius, you're pretty stupid."

Bruce didn't react to the insult, though Natasha felt her own blood boil in his defense. "It's just that the boy is innocent. The war will take enough innocent lives; why must it start with one?"

"I agree with Bruce," Natasha said, straightening her back and raising her chin. "He's barely more than a child."

"Oooh, now you have something to say?" Richards asked, narrowing his eyes at Natasha. "Do you remember how I found you? You were so slobbering drunk, you couldn't buy vodka, babbling about robotic hands and dead fathers! You're lucky I bothered with you at all, a mere woman." Her hand flexed on the hilt of her sword, but before she could draw on her employer, he'd turned to Bruce. "And _you_ ," he said, voice dripping with contempt. "One of the greatest minds of our age, a scientist beyond compare, they called you. But you were nothing but a mindless beast! It was me who took you in when you were wandering alone, hopeless, helpless, friendless, brainless! Do you want me to send you to send you back to where I found you? Unemployed? In Latveria?"

Bruce flushed and looked away. "Of course not, Reed. I wasn't thinking."

Natasha pushed her own outrage down, into the hard ball of hatred that had spawned in her belly the day the man with the metal hand had cut down her father, made a widow of her mother and a mockery out of her. She smiled at Reed Richards, showing more teeth than was strictly necessary, and nodded. "You're the boss," she said.

"That's right," he said, and stalked up the gangplank past the two of them. "And don't you forget it."

Bruce gave Natasha a small, apologetic smile. "Come on. Reed, he's a... _jerk_."

Nat arched an eyebrow at him. "He is very focused on his _work_."

Grinning full out now, Bruce climbed into the boat. "It's quite alright, if the money is _good_."

Natasha slung the prince's bow across her shoulder to free both hands, and untied the boat from its mooring. "With people like us, that is _understood_."

She tossed the thick rope to Bruce, who caught it easily. "We are, indeed, two of the _best_."

"Yet still," she said, shoving the boat away from the dock before taking a flying leap and landing lightly on the deck, "he always seems _stressed_."

"Enough of that!" Richards yelled, his voice slightly strangled with anger.

Natasha rolled her eyes as she began to coil the rope, and Bruce took a spot on the prow. "Bruce, are there rocks ahead?"

"If there are, we'll all be dead!" he shot back.

Richards yelped. "No more rhymes now, I mean it!"

"Anybody want a peanut?"

Nat couldn't hide her grin at Richards' annoyed screech.

**

"Okay, okay, wait a minute here," Bucky said. Steve gently closed the book, marking his place with a finger. "In what medieval country was it okay for a prince to marry another man?"

Steve fought to keep a smile off his face, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to Bucky's mouth. "It's a fairy tale," he murmured, words skating over Bucky's lips. "A hopeful fantasy, if you like."

Humming happily, Bucky arched into the kiss. His tongue flicked against Steve's lips, and Steve opened for him, tilting his head to the side to gain a better angle. Bucky tasted of bitter coffee and a hint of cigarette smoke, and Steve couldn't stop his appreciative moan when Bucky's teeth sunk into his bottom lip and his hand came up to cup Steve's head.

When they were both slightly breathless, Steve pulled back, leaving enough room between them to catch Bucky's slightly glassy gaze. "Can I read the story now?" he asked, lips tilting into a mocking smile.

"Did you just..." Bucky trailed off and narrowed his eyes. "You just kissed me to shut me up! You're glossing over plot-holes with makeouts! That's shitty story-telling, Rogers," he concluded, leaning back into his bed and crossing his arms over his chest.

Steve arched a brow at him. "I didn't hear a 'no' in that tirade."

Bucky huffed. "Fine, continue your completely unrealistic not-a-romance."

"If you insist," Steve said, unable to keep his laughter inside.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Clint noticed was the throbbing pain in the back of his skull, followed swiftly by the gentle rocking motion of a boat. The latter only served to emphasize the former, and with a grunt, he managed to heave himself over onto his side before he ended up choking on his own vomit.

"Shhh," a soft woman's voice soothed, her hand rubbing warm circles on his upper back. "Moving will only make it worse." After a few moments, the wave of pain retreated, and with her help, Clint managed to sit up. When he opened his eyes, the woman peered into them, nodding once, firmly. "Only a minor concussion. You'll be fine in a few hours; nothing but a headache." She stood and walked away, heading toward the back of the boat.

Clint frowned and looked around. It was dark, the sky sprinkled with stars, and the full moon reflected silver on the water. His hands were bound at the wrists and his legs at the ankles, but he wasn't lashed to the railing he leaned against. The thin man with the oily smile steered, while the other man, the one who'd magically transformed into something huge and green, sat silently against the mast, eyes closed.

"What are you doing?" the thin man asked, glaring at the woman.

She shrugged one slim shoulder. "Ensuring we're not being followed," she answered, her voice smooth.

He laughed at that, rolling his eyes. "That, my dear, would be inconceivable."

Another minute passed, and the silence began to eat at Clint. "You won't get away with this, you know," he said, using his taunt to cover the sound of rope against wood as he began wriggling out of his bonds. "You'll be caught, and my fiancé will see you hanged for this."

The man's laugh rolled over Clint, the sound invasive. "Ah, Highness, I believe the only neck on this boat you should worry for is your own." He looked up, and Clint followed his gaze. The woman was still staring off the back of the boat. "Natasha, stop doing that! We can relax now, it's nearly over."

The woman, Natasha, didn't turn. "You're quite sure, Richards, that no one is following us?"

Richards huffed out an angry-sounding sigh. "Of course I'm sure! I put this plan together, remember? I'm the most brilliant scientist in all the world; for someone to have cracked my plan would be truly inconceivable. No one from Jotunheim knows we are coming, and no one from Asgard could get here so quickly. We're safe." He paused, brows furrowing. "Out of purely scientific curiosity, why do you ask?"

"Well, I happened to look behind us," Natasha said, and Clint was almost positive there was a wry humor in her tone, "and something is there."

"What?!" Richards screeched, leaving his position at the wheel to rush toward the back. Clint glanced over the rail of the boat, and noticed a black shape floating along on the moon-silvered sea. "I'm sure it's nothing," Richards said, but Clint could hear doubt in his voice. "Probably just a local fisherman, out for a moonlit pleasure cruise," he reasoned. "On eel-infested waters," he added, frowning.

Clint finally managed to free his hands, then untie the frankly pathetic knot holding his ankles together. While the kidnappers were distracted by the ship following them, he flung himself into the sea.

The water was so cold, it punched the breath out of him. It took him a moment to gather his bearings, then he started swimming toward the nearest landmass. He could hear Richards yelling, instructing his accomplices to turn back, but Clint paid no attention to it, instead making for the lumpy landmass to the west. It wasn't until a terrifying shriek sounded just a few feet away from his face that he stopped, treading water and looking around to find the source.

"Do you hear that, Highness?" Richards asked, and Clint spun in the water until he was looking back at the boat. The man was leaning over the railing, his teeth very white in the darkness. "Those are the shrieking eels," he said. 

Clint shook his head, looking around at the dark water, which had begun to roil as _something_ moved under the surface. His teeth chattered with cold.

"Ah, you don't believe me? Just wait," Richards continued, as his two accomplices moved around behind him. "Their shrieks always grow louder just before they attack."

A smooth, muscular form slithered past Clint's legs, and, as Richards had predicted, the horrible sounds only grew louder. He sucked in a breath, swallowing a mouthful of freezing sea water in his panic, and kicked violently. It hardly phased the thing under the water, and within seconds it was back, circling his ankle. Clint squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands into fists, ready to fight these monsters for his very life.

With an ear-piercing shriek, one of the eels launched itself at Clint, and he snapped his eyes open. Its narrow mouth was filled with teeth, each the length of a finger and glinting menacingly in the moonlight. Clint reacted, slamming his fist into the side of its head and knocking it off its intended trajectory. Stunned, the eel fell back into the water with a splash, but before he could enjoy his victory, a large hand buried itself in the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the sea and into the cold night air. 

Clint fought wildly against the huge green man, but it was futile; within moments, he was bound and lashed to the mast. Soaking wet and fuming, he glared up at Richards' smug smile. "You ought to thank us, Highness. I hear death by eel is quite unpleasant."

Clint scowled. "Seems I'm still in a nest of them," he said through chattering teeth. Even when the monster draped a dry blanket over his bound form, Clint couldn't stop shivering.

Richards laughed. "Your rumored wit does not disappoint." He turned to where Natasha was peering over the back end of the boat. "What are you doing?"

"He's come closer," she said. "We lost time when the Prince jumped."

Richards waved her away. "He is no concern of ours. We're nearly at the cliffs."

The large green man huffed loudly. "Is using our wind?" he asked, plodding toward the stern. With the majority of the ship's weight now centered aft, the rear of the ship began to pitch backward with a disturbing creak of wood.

"Get back to the front, you great hulking beast!" Reed yelled, sending the chastised monster scurrying to the bow and righting the ship.

Natasha sent a positively glacial glare Richards' way before going to sit next to the green man. She patted his arm. "I believe he is, Hulk," she agreed, her tone soothing and friendly. "And he's gaining on us."

"It doesn't matter," Richards spat. "He won't be able to catch us before we reach the cliffs, and without the Hulk, he will be unable to scale them. He'll have to sail around for hours until he finds a suitable harbor. So stop worrying about him, and give me a hand with the rigging."

While the three kidnappers worked behind him, Clint had an unimpeded view off the back. The ship that was trailing them was significantly smaller than theirs, and far more streamlined. He was unsurprised that it had caught up with them, even though it seemed to be manned by a lone sailor. Clint jerked forward as their boat ran aground, and he lost sight of the other boat.

"Here we are," Richards crowed. "He'll never be able to follow us up the Cliffs of Insanity! Hurry up, get the Prince, and let's go."

Clint fought against his captors, but the chill of his wet clothing had sapped his strength. Soon enough, he, Natasha, and Richards were strapped into a harness that hung from the Hulk's massive form, and he began climbing a thick rope. Richards grinned down at the small ship. "Ha! We've won!"

Clint grunted, and met Natasha's eyes. She pressed her lips together firmly and held his gaze, while tiny wrinkles formed between her well-groomed eyebrows. He imagined he saw regret there, for just a moment before her frown fully formed and she looked down. "He's climbing the rope," she said, surprise evident in her voice. "And he gaining on us."

"Inconceivable!" Richards shouted. "Hulk, hurry up!"

"Hulk is hurrying," he grumbled, the low sound vibrating through Clint's chest.

"Well, hurry faster!" Richards snapped.

Hulk's stride didn't change. "Hulk is carrying three people, he is only one," he reasoned.

"Oh, look, it can count," Richards said, his nose wrinkled in a sneer. "I didn't hire this side of you for your brains, I hired you for your brawn! Leave the thinking to Banner, and move your ass!"

Clint saw the muscles in Natasha's jaw clench, but she said nothing. A small bit of sympathy welled up in him for her; she obviously cared more for her co-conspirator than her boss. Of course, she was still a cut-throat kidnapper, so he brushed the thought away and looked down at the man following them. He wore all black, from the mask that covered his face and his hair, down to his calf-high boots. The only parts of him uncovered were his mouth and his muscular forearms that bunched and flexed attractively as he climbed the rope as if he'd been born doing it.

When they reached the top, Natasha quickly unbuckled herself from the harness and unsheathed a dagger. At Richards' order, she began sawing at the thick hemp rope, while the Hulk caught his breath and kept Clint from running. "Well?" Richards asked, as the cut rope slithered over the sheer cliff face.

Natasha walked toward the edge and looked over. "Huh. He has very nice arms," she said.

"What?!?" Richards screeched, rushing over to Natasha's side to see for himself. "Inconceivable!"

Clint smirked. "You keep using that word," he said, causing Richards to turn toward him. "I don't think it means what you think it means."

He narrowed his eyes at Clint, and Natasha bit back a laugh. Richards quickly turned his venomous glare on her. "He has obviously seen us with the Prince, and must be silenced. The Hulk and I will take him, and head for the Jotun border. Natasha, you stay here and get rid of him. If he falls, good. If not," he glanced down at the hilt at Natasha's waist, "the sword. Once he's dead, catch up with us. You know the way."

She nodded slowly. "I think I will fight him right-handed," she said.

"You know we're in a hurry," Richards said as he helped secure Clint to the Hulk's back. She just shrugged in answer, tracing the sword's guard with her finger. He huffed. "Fine, have it your way. But we won't wait for you."

Natasha nodded once, sharply. "Understood."

"Careful," the Hulk said, his eyes on Natasha. "Hulk not like masked men."

She closed the distance between them quickly, and patted his arm. "I will, Hulk. I will see you soon, okay?"

From his position strapped to the thing's massive back, Clint couldn't see his answering expression, but the Hulk traced the line of Natasha's face with one finger. The gentle gesture reminded him of Phil, and he had to turn away, the searing pain in his chest no easier to bear than the day he'd first heard the news of his love's death. "Soon," Hulk said, and after a sharp word from Richards, they were moving.

**

As soon as the Hulk's large form disappeared into the horizon, Natasha walked back to the edge of the cliff. The man in black still clung to the jagged rock face, and as she watched, he inched his way up. "Hello there," she called down. He looked up, and though he was masked, she imagined she could see annoyance on his face. "Slow going?"

He didn't answer right away, instead reaching up to wedge his fingers into a crack and lever himself a bit higher. "This is not as easy as it looks," he said dryly, "and you are not helping."

Natasha bit back her grin. If she hadn't been about to kill him, she might like this man. "Sorry." She backed away from the edge and contented herself with a few simple stretches, then walked through a few basic forms at half-speed. When she finished them, she returned to the edge of the cliff to check on the man in black's progress. He'd scaled another foot, but was still several yards from the top. Natasha scowled. "Do you think you might speed up? I don't have all day."

The man slowly looked up at her, met her gaze, then pointedly rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry to cut into your tight schedule. You could always toss down a rope or something similarly useful."

Natasha's eyes flicked to the cut end of the rope. "I could," she reasoned, "but I doubt you'd trust it, since we both know I'm waiting around to kill you."

With a grunt, the man pushed off with one foot, rising up a few more inches before settling it on a firm jut of rock. "That does put a damper on our relationship," he said lightly.

She watched him for another silent moment. "What if I promised not to kill you? Until you reach the top, that is," she added.

He reached up for another handhold before answering. "Strange as it may sound, I find it hard to trust the word of a mercenary."

She scowled at the title, though she couldn't deny it. "I'll give you my word as a Russian," she tried.

"No good. I've known too many Russians," he shot back. 

A scree of small rocks clattered down the face of the cliff when he lifted his foot, and Natasha winced. "Is there any way you can be convinced to trust me?"

The man in black reached upward. Once he was secure, he shook his head. "Not that I can think of, no."

She knelt at the precipice, expression serious. "I swear on the grave of my father, Ivan Petrovich, that you will reach the top alive."

He blinked and looked up at her. Something must have shown on her face, because he nodded. "Throw me the rope."

The remaining end of the rope was long enough to reach the man in black, and she tossed it down, careful not to hit him and accidentally knock him off. With their combined strengths, Natasha braced at the top and pulling hand over hand, and the man climbing as he had before she's cut the rope he was soon scrambling over the lip gracelessly.

"Well," he said, chest heaving, "you have my thanks, madam. Now—" He trailed off and reached down for his sword.

Natasha stopped him with a wave of her hand. "We'll wait, until you're ready. I swore you'd reach the top alive; it seems against the spirit of that promise to attack you now." 

He inclined his head to her in thanks, and leaned against one of the large boulders scattered about the clifftop. She tilted her head, trying to get a better look at his black-gloved hands. At his questioning look, she shrugged. "I don't mean to pry, but... You don't happen to have a hand of metal, do you?"

The man in black shook his head and took off both leather gloves, showing off two pale, calloused, but obviously flesh hands. "I'm afraid that, of all my injuries, a metallic hand is not one of them." Natasha held her disappointment in check as he put his gloves back on. "Do you always start conversations this way?"

Natasha looked down and huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. "Sometimes," she admitted. She drew her sword, but before he could set himself, she tossed it into the air and caught it by the blade. "My father— the man who raised me— he was a swordmaker." The man took the sword, inspecting its hilt as she continued. "One day, a man with a metal hand appeared, and commissioned a special sword. That sword," she said nodding toward her weapon.

The man in black offered her the sword back, hilt-first. "It is a beautiful sword. I've never seen its equal."

Natasha smiled at the compliment. "It took him nearly a year of work. When the man reappeared, for the finished piece, he refused to pay. He offered Ivan a tenth of his promised price— not even enough to cover the materials, let alone the labor. Ivan refused. It was a mistake," she added, venom and hurt coloring her words. "The man cut him down where he stood. Ivan didn't even have a chance to defend himself; the man pulled a dagger and stabbed him through the heart."

"I'm so sorry," he said, and though he was technically an enemy, Natasha thought he meant it.

"I loved Ivan; he took me in off the streets, gave me a home, a family. So," she said, her voice deceptively light, "I challenged his murderer to a duel. I lost, obviously, but he did not kill me. Instead, he gave me this," she indicated the thin white scar that ran from her left ear to the corner of her lip, "and this," she touched the matching scar on her right cheek. "He said that any girl who dared challenge him should have no other man in her life, should die unmarried and alone, and I was far too pretty for that. Not anymore," she murmured.

Her silence said more than words. After a moment, he asked, "How old were you?"

She huffed out a short laugh. "I was 9. As soon as I was strong enough, I sought out anyone who would teach me to fight: sword, staff, bow, fists. I even have a bit of education in poisons," Natasha added, winking cheekily. "But mostly, the sword. I want to kill that man with Ivan's sword; to slash him open with the weapon that caused my father's death. I want to walk up to him and say, 'Hello, my name is Natasha Romanova. You killed my father; prepare to die.'"

"So you've done nothing but study the art of war?"

"Well," she hedged, shrugging, "not exactly. Revenge doesn't really pay the bills, so I do a bit of mercenary work here and there. And it lets me travel around, expenses paid, and search for him. It's a living," she finished, almost embarrassed.

"I hope you find him," he said, standing and drawing his own sword. "Now, you've been more than generous. Shall we?"

Natasha nodded and drew her own blade. "You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you."

His answering smile was warm. "You seem a decent lady. I hate to die." Before the word was fully out of his mouth, he charged, attacking quickly. He thrust in, and when she parried, he moved to slash, his blade clanging against hers loudly.

Natasha shot him a toothy grin. "A worthy opponent," she said, edging past his guard with a quick flick of her wrist. 

He caught her blade with the hilt of his sword and pushed her back. "Thank you," he answered, sounding not at all disturbed. 

His footwork was good, very good, Natasha noticed, with a sort of rolling gait one only acquired practicing on a ship. "You fight like a pirate," she observed, dodging his next thrust easily.

"And you fight like no woman I've ever met," he shot back.

Natasha laughed heartily as he got the better of her, edging her back and up a set of stone stairs. "I'm not like most women," she admitted, still grinning. After another excellent attack that she barely parried, she said, "I'll admit it. You're better than I am."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but continued pressing. "Yet you're still smiling."

"I know something you don't know," she said, flicking the tip of his blade away from her face with an easy motion.

"And what is that?" he asked, brows furrowed.

She took a full step back and grinned. "I am not right-handed," she said, tossing her blade into the air and catching it easily in her left hand.

Now fully in her element, Natasha pressed her advantage, backing the man in black farther and farther toward the edge of the cliff. "You are amazing!" he admitted, awe in his tone.

Her grin grew wider. "I ought to be, after fifteen years." 

He pressed forward, but Natasha parried easily. "There's something I believe I should tell you," the man said, attempting to get past Natasha's guard.

"Yes?" she asked, knocking his blade aside with ease.

He grinned and danced away from her, leaving several feet between them. "I am not left-handed," he said, tossing his sword to his right hand.

The fight quickly turned fierce, with neither of them having a full advantage. Natasha found herself between the man and a rock wall, and only her training in tumbling saved her, allowing her to vault over him.

After several more minutes of fierce fighting, he disarmed her, sending her father's sword flying until its blade was buried in the dirt. She looked up to face the blade aimed between her eyes, resignation in her heart. She dropped to her knees. "Who are you?"

He shrugged, but his blade did not waver. "No one of consequence."

"I must know," she pleaded.

His lips quirked up into a wry smile. "Get used to disappointment."

She huffed out a laugh. "It seems I won't have the time, m'lord."

"Ahh," he said, taking a step closer, "I would sooner destroy a stained glass window as I would a work of art like you, Madame Romanova. Still, it would be careless to let you follow me."

Before she could answer, bright lights flashed in front of her eyes; and then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ivan Petrovich](http://marvel.wikia.com/Ivan_Petrovitch_\(Earth-616\)) was the adoptive/foster father of Natasha Romanova. One version of her history has him raising her mostly alone; another insists he went with her to the Red Room/Department X, where she was molded into the Black Widow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Holiday weekend + family time (BABBU!) + shoddy internet at my parents' house = no time to edit and post. The rest of the chapters should go up relatively quickly.

The sound of footsteps drew Bruce's attention, and he opened his eyes. The man in black stood several yards from him, hand on his sword warily, but not yet threatening. He imagined that coming upon a small man sitting serenely in the road when one expected to find a green monster was a bit bizarre. "Um, may I pass?" he asked, confusion evident in his tone.

Bruce didn't answer right away, instead using the pause to take a deep, calming breath. It had taken quite a lot of his willpower to force the Hulk back when he and Reed had seen the man leaving the site of his fight with Natasha; his other half was nearly as fond of her as Bruce himself was. But despite what some people thought, Bruce still considered himself a rational creature. "The woman, does she still live?"

The side of the man's mouth quirked up in a smile. "If I answer your question, will you answer mine?"

Bruce cocked his head to the side and licked his lips. "That's a fair exchange."

He removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and took a step forward, palms to his sides to prove he was unarmed. "She'll have an aching head when she wakes, but she is very much alive. Nothing a bit of time and willow bark can't cure."

He couldn't fully disguise his sigh of relief at that. "Good," he said. Bruce arched a brow. "And your question, stranger?"

The man met Bruce's gaze. "Does the Prince still live?"

"When Reed took his leave of me, intending me to kill you as Natasha failed to do, yes, he lived." He looked away. "I would not suggest tarrying here, though. He may not be so soon."

"Why help me?" the man asked, and even behind the mask, Bruce could see his frown. "I could have easily killed you."

At that, Bruce laughed, full and fierce. "Ah, you would not find me so easy to kill, I assure you. And had you killed Natasha… well. Let us both be glad you didn't." He sobered quickly. "At one time, Reed Richards was a friend and colleague. Our lives took us in different directions, but I hadn't truly understood the extent of the gap between us until now. His quest is not mine."

Nodding, the man walked closer. "Thank you, sir. Your kindness will not go unremembered."

"Ah! I have one more question," Bruce said, stopping the man in his tracks. "Why wear the mask? Are you horribly scarred? Burned by acid?"

The man chuckled and shrugged. "Nothing like that. It's just that they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future."

Bruce cocked his head to the side, his mouth gaping open. "Well," he said after a short pause, "I suppose they might."

He winked at Bruce and touched two fingers to his forehead in a slightly mocking salute. "Good day, friend." With that, he jogged off, staying just out of Bruce's reach.

Bruce listened until the man's footsteps faded into the distance before he stood. The Hulk was prodding at him, insisting that they go check on Natasha, to ensure that the mysterious stranger wasn't lying about her health. Bruce took a deep, calming breath, and agreed with him. As much as he wanted to stop whatever Reed was planning, Natasha was more important.

He took off back down the path.

**

Clint bit down on the dirty gag on his mouth angrily. He could see nothing through his blindfold, and the rope binding his wrists chafed against his skin with every movement. Richards had already threatened violence if Clint attempted to get away, so while his captor repeatedly muttered "Inconceivable," next to him, he did his best to work on the knot without moving.

He was so intent on his task that he didn't hear the footsteps until he felt cool metal against his neck. "So it's down to you, and it's down to me," Richards said, and the point of the dagger dug into Clint's skin. "Take another step, and I slit his throat." 

Clint froze. "Perhaps we can make an arrangement," the man offered, and Clint strained to pick out what he could from his voice. His accent was flat, with nothing to distinguish it; it was so flat the Clint was certain he'd practiced it. He sounded neither old nor young; really, he could be anyone from anywhere. Still, there was a hint of something familiar in the way he spoke, something that made Clint's stomach twist. 

"There will be no arrangement," Richards hissed, breaking his train of thought. Clint bit back a whimper as the blade of the dagger cut his skin. "And, you are killing him."

"Then it seems we are at an impasse," the man said, calm radiating from him. "I did notice something. Your swordswoman was smart, but it is obvious that you are the brains of this operation. Perhaps…" He trailed off. "No, it would be too risky. For you."

Clint could feel Richards nearly vibrating next to him. After a long minute of silence, he cracked. "I'll hear you out. But quickly."

The man took a step closer, prompting Richards to jam the blade deeper into Clint's neck. Clint whimpered. "I mean you no harm, but I would appreciate if you would stop damaging the merchandise." Richards turned the knife so the flat part of the blade lay against Clint's neck, and he heard their visitor sit down across the makeshift table from them. "Thank you. And I'm sure the prince would thank you as well, had he the ability to speak."

Clint bristled at the man's bland tone, though, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and bleeding as he was, he could do nothing about it. He quietly seethed and decided that with Richards distracted by their visitor, that he would take the opportunity to get out of his bonds.

"I propose a battle of wits," the man continued, smoothly, as Clint bent his wrist forward until he could touch the underside of his forearm with his longest finger, then back, using the motion to ease the tightness of the rope.

" _Mano a mano_?" A pause; Clint assumed the man agreed. "For the prince?" Another pause. "To the death?" Yet another pause. "I accept," Richards crowed, and the knife abruptly disappeared from his neck. He took a deep breath in relief.

"Pour the wine," the man said, and Clint swore he could hear satisfaction in his voice. He narrowed his eyes behind the blindfold, but did not stop wriggling his hands. He rotated his wrists, biting back a smile when the rope no longer chafed. Something rustled, then, "Inhale this, but do not touch."

"I smell nothing," Richards said.

"What you do not smell is called Iocane powder. It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is among the more deadly poisons known to man." 

Richards hummed. "I have heard tales of this poison, but it's rare here in the north. Continue."

Clint cocked his head to the side, and used the the clink of pewter on rock as someone— the other man, he was certain— picked up the wine glasses to cover the soft crack of his wrist joint as he twisted it. The motion was painful, and for a second he was glad Richards had gagged him. The cloth in his mouth kept him from crying out. He breathed deeply, trying to will away the pain.

"Now, where is the poison?"

"Excuse me?" Richards asked. Clint startled as well, turning his head to face where presumably the other man sat. That was certainly an expected twist to this whole horrible day.

"Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you choose a glass, and we find out who is right… and who is dead."

While Richards fidgeted next to him, Clint tried to pull one of his hands free, but the rope was still too tight. "But it's so simple!" he said, loud enough that even Clint could tell he was bluffing. "I simply have to deduce the answer by taking what I know of you, and fitting it into what you know of me."

"Please, enlighten me," the man said, his voice mild, with an undercurrent of amusement.

Reed laughed, and Clint pulled his arms apart, trying to get as much space between his wrists as possible. "The question is, are you the type of man that would put the poison in his own drink, assuming that only a fool would drink what he is given; or are you the type of man who would insist on putting the poison as far away from himself as possible?"

"You tell me."

Clint could tell the stranger's demeanor was getting to Richards, so he waited a moment to make sure his kidnapper didn't decide to renege on the deal and pick up the dagger again. "Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet," Richards began, and Clint strained against the rope, assured that he was not about to be stabbed, "because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you must have known I was not a great fool, you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me."

The stranger asked, "You've made your decision then?"

Contorting his hand a bit more, Clint rubbed the pad of one finger over the knot. It was smaller and tighter, which meant there was more slack around his wrists. Richards' voice crept higher as he continued his tirade— something about Genosha and mutants and trust issues, he wasn't really listening— while Clint took a deep breath and slid one hand free of the rope. He felt a warm wetness creep down his palm, the skin rubbed raw and bleeding by the rough hemp, but the pain was nothing compared to the joy of being free. He let the rope fall from his other wrist, catching it on a hooked finger to keep it from dropping heavily to the ground.

"It has worked! You've given everything away! I know where the poison is!" Richards yelled, startling Clint into letting the rope fall. He held his breath, waiting for the cold steel blade of the knife to slice into his neck.

Instead, the stranger said, "Then make your choice."

"I shall— what is that?!" Richards yelped. Even Clint, blindfolded as he was, could see through that obvious ploy, and he heard the soft clink of pewter on rock as Richards switched the glasses. "Ah, never mind, I must be seeing things," he said, smugness dripping from his voice. "Now, let us drink: you from your glass, and me from mine."

They both drank, Richards slurping noisily. Clint kept his arms behind his back, clenching and unclenching his fists to draw blood back into his hands, ready to attack whichever man didn't fall over from poison.

After a moment, the stranger set his glass back on the rock table. "You chose wrong," he said, his tone confident.

Reed's laugh was loud and ugly. "You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses while your back was turned! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: Never go up against a scientist when death is on the line!" He continued to laugh, high and hysterically, until he seemed to choke on the sound, his body falling to the ground with a muffled thump.

Clint listened as the stranger walked around the table, readying himself. His hands were warm on Clint's temples as he pulled off the blindfold, and Clint squinted into the late-afternoon sun. He couldn't really make out the man's features; between the black mask he wore and his own eyes' adjustment from dark to light, the stranger was little more than a blur. 

When he reached around Clint's head and untied the gag, Clint saw his chance. He stood up swiftly, aiming forward, and using the crown of his head as a battering ram against his new captor's chin. Pain exploded behind his eyes, but he continued on, reaching for the man's neck with his newly-freed hands. Unfortunately, his balance was more precarious than he expected, and after a brief tussle, he ended up face down in the dirt, the stranger pressing him into the ground. Clint coughed. "Who are you?"

"I am no one to be trifled with; that is all you need know. I suggest, your Highness, that you not try that again," he said while tugged Clint to his knees. 

Clint glared up at him, jaw set mulishly. Instead of answering, he said, "So it was your cup that was poisoned."

The man smiled, and pulled Clint to his feet. "They were both poisoned. I've spent the last several years building up an immunity to Iocane powder."

**

"So you're telling me that our fairy tale hero can't recognize the love of his life because he's wearing, what, a mask over his eyes?" Bucky scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

"Because that wouldn't happen in real life," Steve said, voice dripping sarcasm.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "First of all, I was brainwashed, and secondly, my mask covered most of my face, and so did yours."

Steve just arched an eyebrow. 

"Okay, so it's plausible," Bucky finally admitted with a scowl. "Go on."

**

Clint's hands were bound again, the hemp rough on his already raw skin. The stranger had untied his ankles but wrapped the remaining rope around his waist to use as a sort of leash. Clint was furious, but the quick pace his captor was setting left him little breath to complain.

The crested a ridge, and the man stopped, tugging on the rope to pull Clint close to him before pushing him roughly down onto the ground. "Catch your breath," he ordered, scanning the horizon.

"If you release me," Clint said, "you'll get whatever you ask for ransom, I swear it."

The stranger snorted. "And what is that worth, hmm? The promise of a Barton." He spat Clint's surname out, as if the very syllables tasted foul.

Clint sighed. "My fiancé will be looking for me, and he is quite wealthy; whatever my brother has done, I assure you, I will do whatever is in my power to make it right. "

"This is not something you can make right with money, Highness," he said, turning to pin Clint with his gaze.

Straightening his back and lifting his chin, Clint tried to imitate the nobles he saw every day in the palace. "I was giving you a chance. It does not matter where you take me, for Prince Loki can see through to all the nine realms; finding you will be barely a challenge. He will come for me."

"You think your dearest love will save you?"

He huffed out a strangled laugh. "I never said he was my dearest love, but he will come for me nonetheless. He does not like to lose."

The stranger cocked his head to the side. "You admit you do not love him?"

"He knows I do not love him," Clint said. He felt a strange compulsion to elaborate, to admit that his brother had convinced him to accept Loki's offer against his own better judgement, but did not. He did not need to give this man more reason to hate his brother.

The man laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that pierced Clint through the heart. It was the sound of a man who had lost all hope; Clint knew it well. "Are not capable of love is what you mean," he spat.

Clint jumped to his feet and took a step toward him, raising his bound hands up in front of his face. "I have loved more deeply than a killer like you could ever dream."

The stranger raised his hand, and Clint stood his ground. He lifted his chin and braced himself for a hit that never came. "That was a warning, Highness." He grabbed the rope that hung from Clint's waist and tugged. "Come. We still have quite a ways to go before night falls."

Though Clint was in fairly good shape from riding and archery, being dragged through the rough terrain that straddled the Asgard/Jotunheim border on almost no sleep wore on him. He stumbled often, forcing his captor to slow to right him, and kept his eyes open, gauging direction and distance, in the event he was able to escape. As the sun neared the western horizon, his captor stopped again, now, Clint was certain, solidly within the borders of Asgard. "This is the last time we stop, Highness," he said, shoving him roughly onto the ground.

Once he regained his breath, Clint glared up at the stranger. "I know who you are," he accused. "You're the Dread Pirate Fury; your cruelty reveals all."

The man laughed, and bowed, as if proud to claim the title. "At your service, Prince Clint Barton. What can a humble pirate do for the Prince Consort of Asgard?"

"Not Prince Consort yet," Clint corrected, "and you can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces. I'll be happy to wield the knife, would you but lend me yours."

He clicked his tongue warningly. "Such language from a royal. What have I done to earn your ire?"

"You killed someone very dear to me," he said, and even now, the thought of Phil caused a knot of pain in his chest.

Fury shrugged. "It's possible, I kill a lot of people. Part of being a pirate, you know, though I've opted not to go for the eyepatch," he said, tapping his face just under his eye. "Not so good for the peripheral vision." Clint didn't laugh. "Who was this dear friend of yours? Another prince like this one?"

Clint knew he was being baited, but he couldn't help but rise to Phil's defence, even though so many years had passed. "No, he was a farmer, poor and perfect. He left to make his fortune, except his ship ran into yours before he was able. And everyone knows the Dread Pirate Fury never takes prisoners."

Fury grinned. "I can't afford to make exceptions, not even for poor farmers. Once word gets out that a pirate has gone soft, people stop listening, and then it's work, work, work, all the time," he said, waving his gloved hand in the air to illustrate his point.

"You mock my pain!" Clint yelled, jumping up to get in the pirate's face.

"Life _is_ pain," he retorted, edging into Clint's space. "Anyone who tells you different is selling something."

"If that's how you feel," Clint spat, "you can go to hell!" He punctuated it with a fierce shove, using his shoulder to send Fury to the ground. Caught off guard, he was unable to stop his tumble over down the steep incline, and Clint watched with satisfaction as he skidded down toward the ravine at the bottom.

His heart nearly stopped when Fury's only response was, "As you wish!" on his way down the hillside.

"Phil," he breathed, and without thinking, flung himself down to meet him.

**

"That is very Clint-like," Bucky interrupted.

Steve grinned. "Fairy tales have more truth to them than some people like to believe."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for human vs. animal violence.

The rocks on the bottom of the ravine dug into Clint's already bruised back, and he bit back a grunt of pain. Phil, now without the black mask, leaned over him, his wide grin the most beautiful thing Clint had ever seen. "Can you move?" he asked, running his fingers lightly over Clint's face, then down his arms to his still-bound wrists. 

He laughed incredulously as Phil untied the knots. "Phil, you're alive. If you want, I could fly."

"Is that why you decided to jump off the top of a hill to follow me down?" Phil teased.

"Shut up and kiss me," Clint huffed, dragging Phil's face down to his. Phil's lips were wind chapped, and Clint swore he could taste the sea in his mouth when he opened for Clint's tongue. His stubble was rough and perfect against Clint's skin, and he never, ever wanted the moment to end.

After several moments, Phil pulled back. "Why didn't you wait for me?" he asked, the the words ghosting over Clint's lips.

Clint blinked. "Well, you were dead."

Phil grinned. "Death cannot stop true love. All it can do it delay it for a while."

Unable to think of an answer for that, he cupped the back of Phil's head and pulled him back in for another kiss.

"Loki will be looking for me," Clint said, regretfully pulling away from Phil's kiss.

Phil sighed and leaned his forehead against Clint's. "I suppose he is. We're not far from the Savage Swamp; we can hide from him there."

"Are you crazy? We'll never survive."

Phil ducked in for one last kiss before climbing to his feet. "You're only saying that because no one ever has." He reached down and grabbed Clint's wrist, tugging him to his feet. He frowned at the raw skin, which had, thankfully, stopped bleeding some time before. "Besides, being caught by your fiancé will be just as certain a death sentence."

Clint couldn't argue with that; before Phil had shown up, he'd simply been a passive participant in his own kidnapping, but now he was definitely an accomplice. And there was no way he was letting Phil run off into the sunset and leave him behind to marry Loki. Now that Phil was alive, Clint didn't want to let him out of his sight.

He took a deep breath. "Lead the way."

Hand-in-hand, they raced along the bottom of the ravine, headed for the dark smear on the horizon that marked the Savage Swamp. Even at this distance, it looked foreboding and dangerous, and Clint suddenly remembered every childhood ghost story and half-forgotten old wives' tale that took place in the forest. 

Clint was nearly ready to beg Phil to turn back when the sound of horses in the distance made him turn. On the ridge above them were several riders, all carrying the green and gold standard of Crown Prince Loki of Asgard. He recognized the silhouette of his fiancé in the center, dark hair whipping around in the wind, and Victor Von Doom at his right hand. Loki carried his formal scepter, the gem set into its razor sharp blade glowing blue with his magic. As he watched, a mist the same shade of blue coalesced around Loki's party before it began to flow down the hill like a living thing, murmuring softly and sweetly, promising safety and freedom and happiness.

He didn't realize he'd stopped running until Phil grabbed his arm hard and called his name. Clint blinked and shook his head to clear it. "Faster," he begged. "We have to get away before the fog catches up to us."

Phil didn't question him, just nodded and picked up the pace. Clint could still feel the strange hum of Loki's magic at his back, its tendrils snaking toward him, searching for fingerholds in his mind. The only thing keeping him from dropping to his knees and letting the magic take him over was Phil's hand in his own; he would not leave Phil again.

As soon as they stumbled past the treeline and into the Savage Swamp, the magic lost its grip. Clint fell to his knees, gasping for air at the sudden freedom. "Clint? Clint, what's wrong?"

"Loki," he said, the word slightly strangled.

Phil just nodded, and helped Clint to his feet. "Let's go."

**

Steve paused and glanced up at Bucky. Though he was doing his best to pretend disinterest, he could see the slight flush of Bucky's cheeks and the swift rise and fall of his chest. "Too much romance for you?" he teased. "Or not enough?"

Bucky shot him a venomous glare.

Steve raised one hand in surrender. "Forget I said anything."

**

"So he took me into his cabin," Phil said, pushing aside a low-hanging branch with his sword, "and told me the truth. 'I am not the Dread Pirate Fury,' he said. 'My name is Marcus Johnson. I inherited the name from the real Dread Pirate Fury, just as _you_ will inherit it from _me_.'"

Clint frowned, looking down at the singed leg of his pants. Not ten minutes into the Swamp, he'd stepped right into one of the Swamp's infamous flame spurts, and it had been Phil's quick thinking that had saved him. His leg hair was a little singed, but that was the worst of it, thanks to Phil's quick thinking. "What happened to the original Fury?"

Phil grinned. "Retired, and living like a king in Madripoor. Crime does, in fact, pay, despite what common wisdom would have you believe." He turned and took another step, and suddenly, silently, disappeared.

"Phil!" Clint yelled, looking around frantically. Where Phil had been was a bare patch of sand that looked strangely out of place among the detritus on the Swamp floor. He narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. "Lightning sand," he muttered. Luckily, Phil's sword had not disappeared with him, and Clint used it to slice through a thick vine that he tied around his waist as an anchor. "You're lucky I love you, Phil," he said before taking a deep breath, and diving into the sand head first.

Clint slid through the sand with almost no resistance, reaching out blindly for Phil. His fingers finally brushed against something that could be a wrist. He grabbed onto it and started pulling himself up toward the surface with his other hand, lungs and muscles straining. Just when he was certain he needed to breathe or die, he burst through the surface of the sand and into the open air, dragging Phil with him.

With the last remaining bits of his strength, Clint pulled Phil up and onto the hard ground. They lay there for several minutes, not talking, each sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Clint flopped onto his back and stared up into the canopy, at the slivers of blue sky barely visible through the leaves.

"Am I forgiven for shoving you down the hill?" Clint asked.

Phil's laugh turned into a cough as he expelled the last of the sand from his mouth. "I suppose," he managed, voice rough.

Clint swallowed. "So what now? We can't stay here forever, but as soon as we leave, Loki will be after us."

"I don't know, we seem to have figured out the worst of it," he said, propping himself up on his elbow to smile down at Clint. "What are the three terrors of the Savage Swamp?" He held up his hand, forefinger outstretched. "One, flame spurts. Thanks to you, we know there is a distinct clicking sound that precedes each one." A second finger joined the first. "Two, lightning sand. I happen to have found out what those look like," he said, voice light with self-deprecation, "so we can avoid them in the future."

"But what about the ROOMBAs?" Clint asked, brow furrowed.

"What, Rodents Of Oddly Massive Bigness and Aggression?" Phil asked, pulling off his gloves to shake the sand from them. "I don't believe they exist."

Before the last word had left his lips, a huge rat-like creature leapt down from one of the low-hanging branches of the trees and onto Phil's back. Phil fell forward under the weight, caging Clint beneath him as the ROOMBA clamped onto his upper arm with huge incisors. Not even thinking, Clint punched the thing on its soft pink nose, causing it to let go with a surprised whine.

As the first ROOMBA backed away, snarling, Clint and Phil scrambled to their feet. "They don't exist, huh?" Clint mocked, before adding, "I count ten." Some of them were perched on tree limbs; others were mostly hidden in the underbrush, only the gleam of their eyes giving them away as they surrounded the two men.

"I need my sword," Phil said, glancing pointedly at the weapon that lay abandoned next to the lightning sand pit. He took a step closer, only to be stopped by the collective hiss that started up around him.

Clint snorted. "I think that's out of the question for now. How many daggers do you have?"

He slowly knelt and pulled one from his boot and handed it to Clint. "Just two," he said as he drew the matching one from the scabbard on his belt.

The one that had attacked Phil growled and moved forward, but made sure to keep Clint within its sights. "I wish I had my bow," Clint muttered as he gripped the dagger's handle tightly.

"Me too," Phil said. The ROOMBA charged at him, its short legs propelling it across the ground with surprising speed. As Clint watched, Phil crouched down, knife held at a slight angle, and as soon as the animal came close enough, he thrust up and through the creature's jaw and into its soft palate. The very tip of the blade pierced the top of its skull, the blood glistening red in the soft light.

Clint's attention was quickly diverted by a pair of ROOMBAs coming toward him. One dashed in to nip at his feet, backing away almost as quickly as it attacked, while the other used its back legs as a springboard and leapt toward his chest. He was already off-balance from the first attack, so the weight of the second ROOMBA sent him crashing backwards onto the forest floor, knocking the wind out of him. The creature lunged at his face, mouth open and saliva dripping ominously, and Clint only had a split-second to jerk his arm up and shove his hand— dagger and all— into the gaping maw. It bit down, the sharp points of its teeth cutting his skin, but the blade of the dagger sliced its tongue, and it backed off with a pained whine.

The other rodent saw its opening, and charged, but Clint was ready for it. He kicked out, the sole of his boot hitting the thing on its soft, fleshy snout. It fell back with a pathetic whimper, and lowered its head before backing away from Clint slowly. "Hit 'em in the nose, Phil!" he called, using the handle of his dagger on the snout of the next ROOMBA to rush him. He heard cries and whimpers of pain coming from where Phil was fighting his own battle, but none of them sounded human, so he continued bashing the things on the snout.

After what seemed like an hour, the rodents stopped rushing. Clint kicked the last one on its furry rump as it waddled quickly away, shouting curses he'd learned from the circus folk who'd camped on Waverly's ground every summer. He turned to Phil, who had settled on the ground, back against a tree, blue eyes sparkling as he watched Clint. He arched an eyebrow and cocked his hip. "See something you like?"

Phil's tiny smirk turned into a full-blown grin, and he reached out. "Always."

Clint closed the few feet between them and dropped to his knees in front of Phil, cradling Phil's face between his hands. "I missed you so much," he whispered, and leaned in for a kiss. He couldn't stifle the soft whine at the touch of Phil's tongue against his, opening greedily and kissing him back with a fierceness he'd nearly forgotten. Phil dug his fingers into Clint's scalp, holding him close and slanting his mouth for better access, as Clint fumbled at his waist, rucking up his shirt until he could get his hands on Phil's skin. Under his palms, Phil's warm stomach was firmer than he remembered, but with the same line of hair trailing down into the waistband of his black trousers.

"Need to see you," Phil breathed, his hands sliding down to Clint's shoulders. "I dreamed about you every night, Clint. You kept me alive when I slept on the deck in the rain, and were my compass when the ship was finally mine." Clint moaned into Phil's mouth as Phil hastily loosened the fine cord holding the neck of his purple shirt closed. "I never forgot how you begged me not to go, and I knew I had to come back to make it right."

"You're here now," Clint said, breathless, as he pulled back just enough to strip off his tunic, tossing it carelessly to the side. "And I'm here," he added, doing the same to Phil's, baring his chest and stomach. When he leaned back in for another hungry kiss, he swore he could feel Phil's heart beating in time with his, with nothing but skin between them.

Phil laughed and slid his hands into Clint's pants to cup his ass. "Lots of time to make up," he said, squeezing gently, causing Clint to rut against him.

"Fuck, Phil," he breathed, his normally-clever fingers fumbling at the placket of Phil's trousers. "Naked, now." 

Phil laughed and backed away a little, and they managed to strip out of their trousers and drawers with more speed than finesse. Clint arranged their shirts on the ground for a tiny bit of protection from the damp forest floor then turned onto his back and propped himself up on one elbow, finally getting a chance to see Phil for the first time in years. He was slimmer than he'd been when he left, but more muscular, his years on ships whittling away all but the core of him. His sandy blond hair was thinner, too, yet another sign of the years they'd spent apart. Several new scars littered his sun-browned skin, and Clint reached up to trace the longest one, a jagged line across his stomach. "Jesus, Phil," Clint said, his shock coloring his voice. 

Phil caught his hand brought it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to Clint's fingertips. "I'll tell you the story later. But right now," he said, reaching down and took Clint's half-hard cock in his other hand, "other things are more important."

Clint bit back a whine at the slow slide of Phil's calloused palm on his cock, too dry and too rough, but the sharp bite of pain made it all better. The hurt proved this wasn't a feverish dream borne of too many nights alone; it was real, and Phil was here with him. Before the touch became too much, Phil leaned in and replaced his hand with his mouth, enveloping the head of Clint's cock in wet heat. 

Clint yelped and thrust up, unable to stop the instinctual reaction. Phil pulled back, gagging slightly, and braced his forearm across Clint's hipbones to hold him in place before diving back in. He dragged the flat of his tongue up from the base to the tip of Clint's cock, teasing the slit for a moment before sliding the tip of his tongue under Clint's foreskin. He swore and grit his teeth against the wash of sensation, earning a small chuckle from Phil.

Soon, too soon, he felt his balls tighten as his orgasm built. He threaded his fingers into Phil's thinning hair and tugged until he let Clint's cock fall from his mouth with an obscene sound. Phil's cheeks were flushed pink, his lips shiny with spit and a little bit swollen, and when their eyes met, Clint's chest tightened to the point of pain. He pulled Phil's face up to meet his, squeezing his eyes shut to keep tears from falling at the feel of Phil's mouth on his. Humming happily, Phil straddled Clint's thighs. 

Clint reached between them, finally getting his hand around Phil's cock. His own was still slick from Phil's mouth, and it took only a few minor adjustments until Clint could encircle both with one hand. Phil moaned against Clint's neck, hips twitching in aborted thrusts as Clint jerked them off. "Clint," Phil said, voice strained, "'m gonna come soon."

Biting his bottom lip against the rush of sensation those words caused, Clint sped up a little, twisting his wrist on the upstroke like he knew Phil loved. Apparently that was all it took, and Phil sunk his teeth into the meat of Clint's shoulder to muffle his climax as he painted Clint's stomach with come. The feeling of Phil's cock twitching as he came tipped Clint over into his own orgasm, crying out Phil's name into the rapidly darkening forest. He clung to Phil's shoulder with his free hand, stroking slowly to draw out their pleasure as long as he could.

Damp with sweat and sticky with come, Clint finally slumped forward. "God, I missed you," he slurred, nuzzling absently at the curve of Phil's shoulder.

"I missed you too," Phil said, stroking Clint's back softly. "And I swear, I will never leave you again."

**

Steve shut the book gently and laid it on the bed-side table. Bucky had closed his eyes at some point, but it was clear he was awake by his irregular breathing. Steve was gratified to see that his cheeks were flushed pink and he was half-hard under the sheets, and let out a soft chuckle as he leaned in. "Now, if you promised not to do anything stupid for the next couple of days," he said, breath brushing Bucky's ear, "I would be willing to unhook your cast from the bed and let you move into our bedroom."

Bucky inhaled sharply and bit his bottom lip. "I think I can be good, as long as you stick around to watch me," he added, blinking his eyes open.

"That sounds like something I can get behind," he said, pressing a soft, nearly chaste kiss to Bucky's wet lips.

**

~~One~~ ~~two~~ several hours later...

**

Steve blinked awake, the edges of his vision still fuzzy with sleep, as the bed under him shifted. His hand darted out to wrap tightly around Bucky's wrist with almost no conscious thought. "Don't even think about it," he mumbled.

Bucky sighed heavily and flopped back onto the bed. "You're no fun, Rogers," he said, the petulance at being caught clear in his voice.

"That's not what you were saying earlier," Steve said, turning over and pinning Bucky's body back against the sheets. He leaned in and nuzzled at the already-healing hickey on Bucky's collar bone. "I think your exact words were, 'Don't stop, Steve, don't fucking stop, I'm so close,' and then you shouted something that wasn't real words. Granted," he added with a self-satisfied smirk and a gentle nip of Bucky's earlobe, "I was doing my best to suck your brain out through your dick at the time."

"You're a bastard, you know that?" Bucky said, even as he arched up against Steve and grabbed blindly for his hair with his right hand. Steve's cock was thickening in the vee between Bucky's thighs, and he rolled his hips to better feel the silky slide of Bucky's erection against his own.

Suddenly Bucky's pleased moan became a sharp gasp of pain, and his grip on Steve's arm turned crushing, his metal fingers digging into the muscle with enough force to bruise even a super soldier. "Buck, shit, I'm sorry what--"

"Leg," Bucky said between gritted teeth. "Forgot it was broke for a minute there."

He finally let go of Steve's arm, and Steve took the opportunity to roll off the bed and head to the kitchen for Bucky's painkillers and a glass of water. For once, Bucky accepted the pills without complaint, and even let Steve help him into a more comfortable position propped up against the headboard. Steve prayed it was residual endorphins from sex and not a sign of just how much pain Bucky was in that he just laid back and closed his eyes.

After several minutes, Bucky's breathing grew easier and the lines on his face softened. He opened his eyes and smiled wanly at Steve. "You gonna sit around all day in your altogether, or are you going to put on pants and finish your book?"

Steve couldn't quite hide his relieved grin as he fetched the book from the living room, stopping by his dresser to slip into a pair of worn grey sweatpants. He took the opportunity to fill another glass of water before he returned to the bedroom and settled in beside Bucky. "So, where were we?" he asked, flipping to his hastily-place bookmark. "Hmmm, lightning sand, ROOMBAs, a sappy love scene--"

"Eh, not as sappy as I expected," Bucky said.

"Ah, here we are. The escape from the Savage Swamp." 

**

The sun had long set, and the Savage Swamp seemed even more ominous in moonlight than it had during the day. Clint felt completely lost, his keen eyesight little help in the shadowy near-darkness. Phil, on the other hand, seemed supremely confident as he led the way through between the trunks of ancient trees covered in moss. Every few minutes he would stop and look up, tracking their progress by the few stars visible through the looming canopy and the position of the crescent moon. Clint couldn't help the painfully tender feeling in his chest at the sight of Phil's profile when he turned his face skyward; the shadows hid the years they'd lost, and for a few seconds he could pretend that things had never changed. 

But as they edged ever closer to the treeline, it became more and more evident that this was no ill-advised lark he'd dragged Phil into, nor a harmless scrape his charm and Phil's tactician's mind could get them out of. The two of them were on the run from the most powerful man in Asgard, and that was not a safe position in which to be. "Phil," Clint said, finally, wrapping his hand around Phil's wrist to stop him. "We—" He stopped and took a deep breath, intertwining their fingers, the touch of Phil's skin soothing his nerves. Phil looked down at their joined hands with a small frown, but waited for him to continue. "I'm scared of him," Clint finally admitted. "You don't know Loki, Phil, he's… He doesn't like to lose. He's not going to just let us go."

Phil pulled Clint into a hug, and, after a moment, Clint let himself relax into it. The cold seed of anxiety that had wormed its way under his ribcage began to wither under the warmth of Phil's arms around him.

"The _Revenge_ is docked in a small cove just on the Jotun side of the Asgard/Jotunheim border," Phil said, his breath warm against Clint's ear. "I've navigated us to the edge of the Swamp closest to the border, so we'll only be in the open for about half a league."

Clint swallowed and clung tightly to Phil, certain down to his bones that half a league was still too far. But since he had no other choice— were they to make their home in the Savage Swamp?— he could only nod in agreement.

The pair of them reached the treeline not long before dawn. The protection of the Forest now behind them, Phil kept off the overgrown path and headed straight for the border. There was a smudge of grey on the horizon, the promise of a new day to chase away the night, but all Clint could feel was a dread so heavy it weighed down his limbs. "Phil," he whispered, voice cracking under the strain of merely staying upright. "Phil, we can't—"

But before he could say any more, Loki's bitter laugh rang out, echoing off the hills of the Asgardian countryside. "Ah, I see you have brought my consort safely out of the Savage Swamp, pirate. You have my thanks," he said, trotting up the path on his warhorse, staff in hand. He halted a short distance from them, his guards arranged in a semicircle around him, and smiled. "I shall take him off your hands, now. We're to be married on the morrow."

"Never," Phil growled, unsheathing his sword and shoving Clint behind him in one smooth motion. Clint, his feet like lead, stumbled. "I would die before allowing him to return to you."

The sharp pain of his knees hitting the packed dirt under him gave Clint a final second of clarity before a haze of blue descended over his vision. Suddenly, he was standing, his palm hovering over the hilt of his borrowed dagger, waiting for his King's orders.

"I should make him kill you," his King said, voice soft and dangerous, "to let that guilt fester in his heart for the rest of his short life as penalty for this betrayal." 

The man with the sword whirled around, and met Clint's eyes. "What have you done to him?" he asked. Clint could hear the emotion behind the words; it felt like the sort of devotion Clint had for his King, but softer somehow. More fragile.

"Only a little spell," his King answered, his beautiful smile widening. Clint did not take his eyes off the other man, no matter how he wanted to bask in that smile. Though the order was not verbalized, Clint understood it all the same, and his King wanted him still and ready in case of attack. "Though his mind is much more resilient than most of my subjects', your precious Barton is completely under my control, and all his love is _mine_."

Clint watched as the tip of the man's sword faltered. "Clint?" he asked, his voice breaking on the single syllable. "Are you there?"

He opened his mouth to speak, to answer Phil, but then a blast of pain in his skull sent him to his knees, and all he could remember was his King's glorious power. Tears fell from his eyes as he turned toward his King as a flower to the sun.

"I fear my hold on him is weaker than I thought," his King said, and Clint felt sorrow that he could not be perfect for his King. "That is something we can remedy after you are dead. Victor, don't take too long to kill him. I need you at my wedding tonight."

The last thing Clint heard as the guards helped him mount his horse was the harsh, humorless chuckle of the man with the sword. "You have a metal hand. Someone was looking for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Madripoor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madripoor) is a fictional island country in the South Pacific with a very colorful history, based very loosely on Singapore. It was historically a haven for pirates and criminals, and was once taken over by HYDRA.
> 
> In Marvel's main (616) continuity, [Nick Fury](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nick_fury) was one of Captain America's Howling Commandos, then leader of SHIELD. After the massive popularity of the MCU movies, 616 brought in his son, Army Sgt. Marcus Johnson (aka Nick Fury, Jr.) in the mini-series "Battle Scars," where his eye was removed by a super-villain (because comics). He is currently a SHIELD agent, starring in the Secret Avengers book, while Daddy Fury has "retired" is off doing secret Nick Fury shenanigans.
> 
> The [Savage Land](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Land) is the area of Antarctica where otherwise extinct megafauna (e.g. dinosaurs, wooly mammoths, etc.) live in an artificially-maintained tropical game preserve created by aliens. (Comics! *jazz hands*)
> 
> Yes, I named the ROOMBAs because of SciFiGrl47's Toasterverse series.


	5. Chapter 5

"On the authority of His Majesty Loki Odinson, Crown Prince of Asgard, the Danger Forest is hereby declared off-limits to all but the Prince's forces in preparation for his upcoming wedding, which is to be held this evening at sunset," Natasha read aloud. "This order will be enforced with extreme prejudice, by order of Sheriff Justin Hammer." She snorted and yanked the parchment off the post, tossing it contemptuously on the ground and grinding it under the heel of her boot. " _Shto takoi khuy_."

Beside her, Bruce nodded in agreement. When she'd come to with the taste of blood in her mouth and a throbbing headache from her fight with the masked man, he'd been hovering nearby, obviously waiting for her to wake. Together, they'd fled to the Danger Forest before Loki and his men tracked their former prisoner, hoping to hide among the anonymous community of outlaws until they found a new job. Unfortunately, Prince Loki and his stooge Hammer seemed to insist on ruining all of Natasha's plans.

She sighed and leaned forward into the post, pillowing her arm between her forehead and the hard wood. "What now?" she asked.

Bruce laid a light hand on her shoulder. "We could leave," he offered, voice soft. "I have nothing keeping me here, especially now that Reed is dead. You've said yourself that there's little money in revenge. I've heard that there's work in Jotunheim for people like us."

Natasha gritted her teeth, hissing as the motion sparked a sharp stab of pain. "I can't _leave_ ," she said. "I can't let that man go unpunished for what he did to my father, Bruce. I _can't_."

He was silent for a moment, and Natasha felt her chest tighten. There was no doubt in her mind that she _could_ do this alone, if Bruce decided to go, but it wasn't until this very moment that she understood that she no longer wanted to. Just as she opened her mouth to say something— what, she still wasn't sure— Bruce laid a soft hand on her shoulder. "Okay. Okay," he repeated after a short pause. "Then we'll hunt him down together."

"Together," Natasha repeated, reaching up to cover his hand with hers. "Thank you."

She turned in time to catch the hint of a smile playing at the edges of Bruce's lips. "You didn't think I'd let you go alone, did you?" he asked, voice soft and teasing. "That would hardly be gentlemanly."

Natasha snorted out a laugh. "As if you were a gentleman, and I a lady in need of your protection," she countered, leading the way to the small tavern that was one of the only permanent businesses in the transient community of the Danger Forest. They settled into one of the outdoor tables and waved down the barmaid.

"Not to protect you, no, but I would be honored to continue along in your company," Bruce said. 

"Oh, get a room," the young woman muttered as she set their tankards of ale in front of them. "We charge three pence for an hour, or ten for the night." She paused to look the two of them over, hands on her hips, taking in their patched and dirty clothes and the scabbed-over cut on Natasha's forehead in a quick glance. With a pointedly arched brow she added, "In advance."

"No, thank you," Bruce said, seemingly nonplussed even though his cheeks had flushed scarlet. "Just the ale." He fished a pair of coins from his purse and handed them over.

The girl inspected them carefully and tested the metal with a quick bite before hiding them away in her ample bosom. Apparently mollified by the confirmation they had money, she gave Bruce a slightly flirty smile. "Just yell for Darcy if you need anything," she said, flipping her dark hair behind one shoulder and turning away.

"We will," Natasha answered, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.

The ale was slightly warm and more than a little stale, but it washed the dust from her mouth, so Natasha couldn't complain. She downed it in one, long swig, then set the empty mug on the table with a relieved sigh. 

"Feel better?" Bruce asked, hiding his smirk behind his clay tankard.

Natasha wrinkled her nose. "You didn't get knocked out by a sword hilt to the skull, Banner. It will take more than a few mugs of ale to soothe this hurt."

As she was raising her hand to call for another round, a commotion on the other end of the makeshift town sqaure caught their attention. A group of riders came galloping up the overgrown road, yelling and waving swords and the Asgardian flag. Natasha watched as most of the citizens of the Danger Forest scattered like cockroaches before the light, disappearing into the trees before she could blink. Some tried to stand their ground, only to be trampled under the hooves of the soldiers' horses or knocked to the side by the flat of a blade.

Natasha was on her feet with her sword drawn without conscious thought. She locked eyes with the lead rider, a slim white man with the crest of Asgard on his tunic, and Loki's colors on his shoulders. His mouth spread in a vicious grin, and he kneed his chestnut gelding their way. She could hear Bruce swearing behind her as the soldier charged, sword raised above his head.

As the horse and rider bore down on her, Natasha bared her teeth and planted her feet. When the distance between them was less than a yard, she quickly twisted her body, ducking under the horse's head and grabbing its reins in her free hand and wrenching its neck to the side, while she slid the blade of her sword between its flank and the girth strap. The leather split like butter under the razor-sharp metal, and the combination of the horse turning to follow its lead and the loss of the saddle sent the rider tumbling end over end until he landed heavily in the dirt.

Before he could find his feet, Bruce had Hulked out and had him pinned to the ground with one massive hand. "Stay," he growled. The man paled and nodded vigorously.

The remainder of the cavalry unit, bereft of their leader, milled around for a few moments until a roar from the Hulk sent them running. Natasha released the horse's reins, letting the skittish animal follow its herdmates, and turned to the soldier. "Hello there," she said, voice dripping sweetness.

The man gritted his teeth and raised his chin. "You'll get nothing from me."

Natasha felt her smile turn vicious. "Oh, that's too bad. You see, when people don't talk, my friend here gets angry." The Hulk growled, drawing the man's attention back to him. "You wouldn't like him when he's angry."

The man's eyes flicked from the point of Natasha's sword to the Hulk's huge, green form and back. He swallowed hard. "Oh— okay. Okay. Wh— what do you want?"

Natasha shrugged and brought her sword up to inspect the blade. There was a small smear of blood from the horse staining the steel, and she used the sleeve of her tunic to clean it off. "Tell me, why does Prince Loki want the Danger Forest emptied?"

"I, uh— his wedding is tonight. There have been, uh, threats against his betrothed," he stuttered. "He was ki— kidnapped, and the Prince barely rescued him before the villain crossed Asgard's borders."

"Is that right?" she asked, looking up to meet the Hulk's green gaze. "And he's afraid the danger lurks in the Danger Forest?"

"Yes, I mean, I just do what I'm told. It's Dr. Doom's plan, really, the metal-handed control freak," he answered with a sneer. "Doesn't trust my men to keep the peace, even though he was in charge when Barton was kidnapped in the first place."

Natasha froze in place for a moment, her brain refusing to believe what she had just heard. She looked back to the Hulk, who looked just as flabbergasted as she felt. Keeping her voice as level as possible, she asked, "Dr. Doom, you say?"

"Captain of Prince Loki's personal guard, and a real pain in my ass." Both Natasha and the Hulk turned in surprise at Darcy, the barmaid, who had disappeared into the tavern when the soldiers had first appeared. "He and Sheriff Half-Wit Hammer here," she jerked her chin toward the man pinned under the Hulk's hand, "raid this place about once a month, as if they don't have anything better to do."

"You're operating an illegal establishment!" Hammer said. "All inns must pay taxes to the Crown!"

Darcy snorted and looked down her nose at him. "The Crown is more interested in robbing its people than protecting them. I heard a rumor that the Prince himself ordered his fiance kidnapped."

"Shut your mouth, whore, or I'll have it shut permanently," Hammer hissed.

She narrowed her eyes, seemingly unconcerned by the threat. "Tell me, Sheriff," she asked, her voice dripping disdain, "why is the kidnapper being held in Doom's secret Lab of Despair, instead of being paraded through the streets of the Capital? It would make quite a show, to have a public execution and a royal wedding at the same time, wouldn't it? But no, Prince Loki is afraid that people will start asking questions. Or," she amended, "that the _right_ people will start asking questions."

Before he could say anything else, the Hulk pressed on his chest, cutting off his air supply. "Be. Polite," he commanded.

"Actually," Natasha said, "just be quiet. You, on the other hand," she said, turning to the barmaid, "talk. Dr. Doom has a secret prison? Can you take us there?"

Darcy blinked in surprise. "Wh— why would you want to go there?"

Natasha grinned. "I need to see a man about revenge."

\--

"With a map from the barmaid, the pair easily found the entrance to Dr. Doom's Lab of Despair," Steve continued, flipping to the next page. 

Bucky yawned. "I thought you said there was going be action and fighting and stuff."

"Natasha just flipped Justin Hammer off a horse," Steve said. "How much more action are you wanting?"

"Well, there's only been one real sword fight so far," he said with a shrug. "I feel like I'm being cheated here."

Steve rolled his eyes, but started flipping forward through the pages. "Okay, let's see, they go down to the Lab of Despair, and lo and behold, they find the Man in Black lying on one of the tables, mostly dead."

Bucky snorted. "Mostly dead?"

"Yeah, kinda like if a guy with some crazy super-serum in his blood accidentally got frozen in the arctic," Steve said, not even trying to hide his smirk.

Bucky waved him off with his metal hand. "Nah, that was basically suspended animation. You were just hibernating, you know, like a bear. And considering you snore like one, it fits."

"I don't _snore_ ," he hissed, indignant. 

"Wanna bet?" Steve silently narrowed his eyes at Bucky, who grinned. "That's what I thought. You planning on finishing this story sometime this year?"

Huffing, Steve flipped another page. "Since he'd proven that he was smart and strong, Natasha and the Hulk decide to take the Man in Black with them. Obviously, him being mostly dead," Bucky snorted, "presents a problem, but luckily, Bruce knows someone. They leave the Sheriff and Doom's assistant in the underground lab, and head to the house of the Miracle Man."

"Let me guess: Stark?"

Steve shushed him and started to read.

\--

"Sorry, I'm out of the miracle business," Tony said, crossing his arms.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

Tony shrugged and turned around. "I've decided to dedicate my considerable talents to other pursuits. Mechanics, mostly," he said, pointing at the strange, moving contraptions that lined the walls of his small, thatched-roof cottage. It was miles away from the palatial townhouse where he'd lived before his falling out with the Crown Prince, but oddly enough, Bruce thought the crowded, disorganized workshop suited him better.

"Mechanics," Natasha repeated, poking at a metal protrusion as it swung rhythmically back and forth. It responded with a terrified screech, and retracted into the main body of the machine while she jerked her hand back in surprise.

"Well, it's not just mechanics," Tony said with a smirk. "Anyway, why do you want me to resurrect some guy whose name you don't even know?"

Bruce pressed his lips together. "It's a long story."

Tony waved his hand around the small room. "As if I have somewhere more important to be."

Natasha had finally recovered from her encounter with the seemingly-sentient machine, and turned around, eyes wide in faux-innocence. "His wife, sir, she's crippled, and without him, no one can support their children."

Tony arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Bullshit."

She grimaced. "I need his help to avenge my father's murder."

Tony snorted. "Your first story was better. Fine, because of our long-standing friendship, Bruce, I'll check and see if there's anything I can do. But!" he said, interrupting Natasha with a wave of his hand before she could speak, "I am promising nothing. Now, where did I put those bellows? Aha! Here. Now, let's ask our dead friend here if there's a reason to bring him back to life."

"But, he's dead," Natasha said.

Tony looked up from where he was trying to open the dead man's mouth with one hand in order to insert the opening of the bellows into it. "Oh, and are you the miracle man in this relationship? Bruce, explain, would you? I'm a little busy."

Bruce turned to Natasha, who was watching Tony pump air into the body's lungs. "Depending on how someone dies, especially if there was magic involved, or if they have a really, _really_ good reason to stick around, there's different levels of 'dead.' If he's just partially dead—"

" _Mostly_ dead," Tony interrupted.

"—mostly dead," Bruce corrected, not missing a beat, "there's some things we can try. If he's all the way dead, though, there's only one thing to do."

"Which is?" Natasha asked.

"Go through his pockets and look for loose change," Tony said with a smirk. "Now, let's see why our friend here is hanging on. Hey, you! What's so important here you're hanging on? What've you got to live for, huh?" 

As soon as he finished the question, Tony pressed on the man's inflated chest, forcing the air past his vocal cords and out his mouth. The sound that made was haunting and garbled, but even so, Bruce could easily pick out the words. "True love, Tony! How's that for a reason?"

"Well, True Love would be a good reason— I should know," he answered. "But I think all that time spent as a roaring rage monster has damaged your hearing. He clearly said to blave, which as you well know means 'to bluff,' so it sounds to me like you were gambling, and things went wrong—"

"Tony, I am ashamed of you." All three of them turned at the sound of a woman's voice, Bruce and Natasha in surprise, Tony with a grimace that quickly melted into an expression of contrition.

"Hello, Pep my dear, my lovely, my perfect vision of perfection," Tony babbled, reaching for her.

"Bruce, how lovely to see you again," Pepper said, easily avoiding Tony and taking Bruce's hands in hers. "It's been too long. How have you been?"

He coughed and pulled away, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "Ah, well, I've been better. We actually came here for a favor," he said, pointing to the body on the table.

"Yes, I heard that." She looked down at the man, and her eyes went wide. "Phil?" she asked, voice shaky.

Tony, Bruce, and Natasha all shared a confused look. "Pep?" Tony offered, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You know him?"

Pepper took a deep breath and visibly pulled herself together. "Yes. We grew up in the same village, and both wanted more from life that it offered. We naturally gravitated toward each other."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Gravitated, what kind of gravitated?" Pepper shot him a withering look, and he raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry."

"Last we spoke, he was leaving the small farm he helped manage in order to earn enough money to become a landowner so he could marry the younger Barton of Waverly." Pepper reached up to brush her fingers over his cheekbone. "He was killed by pirates, I thought."

"Wait," Natasha said, holding up her hand. "You said Barton of Waverly? As in Clint Barton, who's marrying Crown Prince Loki _tonight_? That Barton?"

"Well this changes everything," Tony said, clapping his hands together. "That bastard Loki threw me out a window, and if I can ruin his big day, I'm all in. Pepper, grab my miracle kit, would you? I have some magic to make."

It only took about ten minutes for Stark to put together a ball of herbs and salves that looked terrible and smelled even worse, but was "guaranteed to bring life to anyone." "Now, you need to wait fifteen minutes for full potency," Tony said, rolling the mess in a small dish of granulated sugar. "And he shouldn't go swimming for, what, an hour?"

"At least," Pepper answered, plucking the pill from Tony's hands and placing it in Bruce's. "There's a wheelbarrow out back if you don't want to carry him all the way."

"Now get out of here," Tony grumbled, shooing Bruce toward the door while Natasha scooped up Phil's mostly-dead body into her arms. The couple followed them out to the yard, waving goodbye as they rolled the wheelbarrow away. "Have fun storming the castle!" Tony yelled. "Bring me back a souvenir! Like Loki's head!"

"Your friends are very weird," Natasha said, once they were well out of hearing range.

"Yeah," Bruce agreed. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Shto takoi khuy_ \- what a penis

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Impressive Clergyman's speech during Humperdinck and Buttercup's wedding: "Mawwage. Mawwage is what bwings us togevah today. Mawwage, that bwessed awwangement, that dweam wifin a dweam."
> 
> In case it was unclear, I've made a handy-dandy chart of who's who in this little AU:
> 
> The Grandson - Bucky  
> The Grandfather - Steve  
> Wesley - Phil  
> Buttercup - Clint  
> Vizzini - Reed Richards  
> Fezzik - Bruce/The Hulk  
> Inigo - Natasha  
> Prince Humperdinck - Loki  
> Count Rugan - Dr. Doom  
> Sheriff - Justin Hammer  
> Miracle Max - Tony  
> Valerie - Pepper
> 
> I originally cast Ian the Intern (from Thor 2) as The Albino, but his bit got cut. *sads*


End file.
